


The Place That Is Ours

by Hyena_Poison



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:38:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyena_Poison/pseuds/Hyena_Poison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl wears himself out trying to show the group just how useful he is. If he doesn't, he fears the group will get rid of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A [Kinkmeme](http://twd-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/5396.html?thread=7249428#t7249428/) fill. 
> 
> Prompt: During the winter between S2 and S3, when they are on the road, Daryl exhausts himself hunting. He gets really thin and tired and sick but won't stop. He is too afraid to stop because he's scared that if he doesn't prove himself to be constantly useful the group will leave him or kick him out. He thinks they still think of him as the freak who is dangerous and maybe violent and he couldn't even find Sophia and the only reason for them to let him be around them is if he can bring them enough food to make it worth their while to let him stay. Every time he comes back from hunting he's scared that they will have left without him and just hopes that they will expect him to bring food so they wouldn't leave while he was hunting. When he does come back without food, when he is too cold or tired or just cannot spend any more time out from camp, he is incredibly afraid of what their reaction will be.

It’s not a question of if, it’s a question of when. When a couple of squirrels or birds isn’t enough. When the rabbit traps come up empty. When the days are short, and the light disappears before he can bag anything. 

Because that’s what he’s there for, right? Daryl, the hunter. Daryl, who can track. Daryl, who brings back food. Except it’s not enough; the woods are shutting down for winter—nothing to spare, no freebies. No fall-backs. 

He’s in the woods as soon as he can be, before most of the others are awake—he tells whoever’s on watch when he leaves. In the back of his head, he hopes the others know, understand that he’s doing what he can. Doing all he knows how to do. 

Slinging his gear together in the bare morning light, a voice from a gully creek-bed tells him they don’t. These people don’t know, don’t want to know—he’s just some redneck piece of shit. He’s good with a knife and a bow, sure; he brings in food and supplies, yeah. But these people aren’t his family—he doesn’t have a wife and son, father or daughters. He doesn’t have friends. When he bothers them, when he doesn’t bring enough meat back; when he loses that inch between ‘helpful’ and ‘useless’—they’ll get rid of him. 

He doesn’t want to think about it—he needs to focus, make sure he’s moving quite through the pines, make sure he’s looking for game trails and tracks. Make sure he doesn’t trip over a goddamn root, snap his ankle—he has to stop walking, take deep breaths. He’s not sure how long it would take to crawl back to camp. What the others would do if he made it back. Wait till he passes out, and leave? Or maybe Rick would put him down like a lame-legged horse. He’s not sure he would even rate a bullet. 

Walking slow, he finds tracks in the dirt—three toes, the long middle one claw-tipped, a small dip of a hind-toe. The pine-needle carpet is rucked up, scratches and foraging holes like some kind of answered prayer—turkey tracks, a rafter of them. 

Like some kind of wash, he doesn’t feel so heavy, sort of warmed up against the cold. This, this is good. This is great, and he’s smirking thinking of how the others will look at him when he brings in a 10 pound bird—he would shrug, tell them it wasn’t anything to get worked up about. They would smile, and he would sit with them by the fire, feeling like that place was his—like he’s earned it that day. 

But that voice in the back of his skull still whispers at him, like a hit to the gut. He can dream all day, but he’s still got to catch the damn thing. The tracks are maybe an hour old, and those big bastards can move miles quick. They make a mess wherever they go, so he follows the tracks easy, through the bones of trees and bushes, empty branches pulling at his clothes. Over a hill, and he didn’t expect to be up so high—the ridge stumbles to a stop, a steep drop covered in rocks and ferns and dead leaves. The creek bed at the bottom is pebbly, phyllite glinting where the sun hits it through the water. 

The scar on his side stings like a bitch as he edges down, gripping roots and rocks to keep his balance. The creek’s colder than he wants, soaking him to mid-thigh at the deepest part; he’s scrambling up the bank, water squelching in his boats, back into the woods before he picks the trail up again. 

It’s cold, like little fingers of ice stealing his heat; even with the coat and long sleeves, he shivers. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and he knows it’s not helping; but sometimes he can’t make himself take a can of something, a piece of whatever they have left. It’s partly his fault there isn’t more—he should hunt farther, track for days until he finds enough. But when the light starts to slip away, he turns around, heads back. It makes him nervous, being gone so long. Something could happen, someone could get hurt—and where would Daryl be? Out in those fucking woods, not catching shit, wasting their time. It makes him nervous, because they could just leave, pick up and go. It would just be him and the woods and the walkers. 

So when Carol or Lori or whoever asks if he’s gotten his share of food, he says yeah and goes on his way. If they notice, no one says anything. They must approve—what’s he done to earn it anyway? 

A clearing thick with tall grass; Daryl hears soft clucks, catches sight of dark bodies moving. Dropping from sight, he pulls back an arrow, ignoring the shake in his fingers. He tries to aim, tries to force his shivering arms to stillness, fails; he crouches, rests his elbow on his knees and fires. 

Heavy wings flapping, cackling loud as they pull themselves up, and the rafter disappears into the tree line. Daryl stalks into the grass, swapping the bow for his knife; the bird is down, an arrow buried in the broadside of its thigh. Daryl stops the little noises and struggles with a quick twist of its neck; using the knife, he digs out the arrow. He dresses it, fast, wiping the muck and blood onto the grass. 

At the creek, he stops to wash the body cavity, clean his arms and hands, his knife. He’s wet all over, and not exactly doing back flips about having to climb back up that ridge. The bird’s not huge, maybe 6 pounds, but enough to complicate things. Still, he can’t drop the urge to smirk, even when he scrapes the shit out his elbow and almost drops the damn turkey. He’s breathing hard at the top, has to lean on a tree before he can go on. 

It’s just afternoon, so Daryl hauls the bird around, following rabbit and coon tracks. He doesn’t get much—nails a couple squirrels, digs up a stand of wild onions, finds a cluster of mushrooms on a dead trunk. It’s the best Daryl’s brought back in weeks. There’s maybe an hour til sunset, but he can’t stop shivering and his head feels light on his shoulders, eyes blurry; he turns back. 

The campsite is over this hill, just behind those trees. And he can’t help that fucking sick feeling, how his lungs stutter cold air in and out like he’d run the whole way back. He’s tired and cold and just wants to sit by the fire, drink some of Carol’s nasty-ass tea. Then he’s stuck, standing still, holding dead animals and shit like they are fucking Christmas presents. Because he wants to puke or scream or just run the last few yards. Because anything could be over there waiting. 

Because today, for sure. 

Today, he’ll walk over that hill, behind those trees, and there will be nothing. They will be gone; all the tents and bags and shit—just gone, like nothing had ever been there. No fire pit, no foot prints, pine-needles and brush completely untouched. Empty, except for his bike and tent, alone in this tiny clearing like that’s the way it was supposed to be. 

Sometimes, when Daryl manages to sleep, he dreams about it. About coming back to nothing, about coming back to ripped-up bodies. About running after shadows in the pines, because someone is lost, and Jesus Christ, he’s got to find them, and every second that goes by he knows they’re getting farther and farther away—sometimes he finds a bloody hand, sometimes it’s a doll or a little shoe—he’d wake up sweating with his heart trying to break through his ribcage. He doesn’t sleep after that, gets up and walks the perimeter until the sun is up. Then it’s back to the woods. 

Someone laughs—Maggie or Beth, probably—and it’s like a slap, wakes him up and gets him moving. He whistles a little bit out, lets them know it’s not something else snapping branches. He forgot to, once; scared the shit out of Carl and Beth. She’d kind of squeaked and Carl’d pulled his gun and then the whole camp was rushing over with bats and knives and shotguns. He’d said sorry, handed over whatever it was that he’d shot. He doesn’t forget that look in Lori’s eyes, pulling Carl against her pregnant belly like she’d be glad if they’d shot Daryl. 

So he whistles, walks past the cars into the little camp. Carol and Lori sit around the fire, poking it down for the night. Rick and Hershel are huddled over the map, spread out on a car hood, while Carl and Glenn are cleaning guns nearby; someone’s on watch, and the others must be in their tents. They look up at him, like they’re surprised he’d come back at all; it’s awkward as hell, every one staring, not saying a word. He fidgets and looks away, feeling like maybe he should just back away into the trees. 

But Carol’s up, smiling and laughs, “Oh my god, is that what I think it is?” And then everyone drops on him like a swarm, grabbing things from him, talking at him and smiling. Maggie and Beth are there, pulling at the turkey—they were raised plucking chickens, so he figures they know what they’re about. Carol is asking what kind of mushrooms are those, how should they cook them—he’s feeling like he can’t breathe, and lets them take what they will, brushing through the tangle of people so he can skin the squirrels. 

He’s looking at the ground, almost runs into T-Dog, a rifle slung over his shoulder. “Well, shit,” T-dog breaks into this big grin, like he’s not dirty and tired and fucking desperate. Like Daryl was some old pal who decided to surprise him with a six-pack or something. 

“Ain’t nothing’,” Daryl grunts, avoiding a clap on the shoulder. T-Dog just smiles, shakes his head and joins the others, leaving Daryl to himself. He skins quickly, a few cuts and he’s pulling fur and skin off like a glove. He can’t help but watch the others, off and away like he’s an outsider. The way they smile at each other, hug and talk so easy, he knows he is. And as much as he wants to, he can’t really blame them. 

He’s not stupid, he knows what he’s been like, how he is. He’s some Appalachian-backwater redneck; he’s not exactly friendly on good days, and he’s easy to set off—volatile, some teacher had called him way back. It doesn’t matter if that’s really him or not, it’s what these people believe—what he’s let them go on believing, because he’s been too fucking wrapped up in his own shit to fix things. 

Here he is, like some kind of half-trained, mangy thing thrown in with the goddamn house pets. He doesn’t even know where to start. So he gives Carol the squirrels, allows her to squeeze his arm as he brushes past; he digs out his blanket, drops down by the fire and works on not shivering. He knows he needs to find new clothes, some that aren’t so baggy and maybe he’d be warmer. The others move around him, setting pots and things against the embers, letting him be. 

He’s comfortable and half asleep when they settle in around him to eat; Glenn on his left, Carol at his right. Over the fire, he sees Rick watching him, waits for Daryl to meet his eyes. Then he nods, tells him ‘good job’; he has to stop himself from flinching when Glenn shakes his shoulder in agreement. He ducks his head, allows himself a small piece of turkey, tries to ignore them. Fucking Rick Grimes and his bullshit. But the fire is so warm, and there are people on both sides, and he can almost believe for a moment that this is his place, where he belongs. But it’s only a moment; there and gone, because he doesn’t want to lie to himself. 

Because tomorrow they could still leave.


	2. Chapter 2

It starts in the night, leaning against a wall in some shit-hole house that no one’d lived in even before the apocalypse. There’s dust and mold and spider webs, so it’s easy to pretend that’s why he’s coughing. It’s a pressure in his chest, makes his eyes water and his head throb until he gives in, pressing a hand to his mouth to smother it. Of course, it makes the headache worse, makes everything worse. Hard as he tries to put it out of his head, he can’t swallow the need to hide it. 

If he’s sick—he tells himself over and over that it’s just dust and bad air—the others will turn him out. This isn’t like before, with that fucking arrow through his side; there isn’t a nice bed, clean bandages and pills. They don’t need him like they did before—when they thought Sofia was alive, when he had the best chance of finding her. He tries not the think about it, but most of the time he fucks that up, too. Because it hangs over him, that guilt, like the tug of a scar every time he moves. It’s not his fault he knows, sort of far back in his head—she’d been in that barn, before Otis got himself killed, all that time they’d been out in those fucking trees. And it burns at him that Shane’s bullshit had been true, how they’d wasted their time, how the whole thing had been tanking before it even started. 

Across the room, T-Dog rolls in his sleep, startling Daryl. And now he’s pissed about that, because how stupid is it to go off in space when he’s supposed to be on watch? He can’t even blame these people for not wanting him around. He couldn’t find Sofia, can’t hardly find any food, and now he can’t even focus long enough to finish his shift. Of course they’re going to ditch him if he keeps this up. 

It’s maybe an hour later that he hears boots on the hardwood floor—no bare feet anymore, they have to sleep in their cloths, their shoes, their gear ready if they have to run. Rick rounds the corner, standing beside Daryl where he sits against the wall. He doesn’t look over, doesn’t want to hear what Rick has to say—he’s got maybe an hour still on watch, and Glenn’s next—so there’s no other reason for Grimes to be standing there, looming over him. 

Rick taps his shoulder with something hard; Daryl has a hiccup of fear that it’s a gun, and shit, this is it, they’re—

“Drink,” Rick says, poking him again with the metal canteen. Now that he sees it, Daryl feels like an idiot, heart thumping and clammy palms gripping his crossbow, his lungs burning like hot iron. And fuck, he can’t help but start coughing, not just a couple of times, but until he’s shaking and his head’s pounding white into his vision. 

From the corner of his eye, Rick watches, slides down the wall next to him and presses the canteen into his hand. Daryl knows they’re running low on water, knows how dangerous it will be getting more, but goddamn it, he’s so thirsty and he gulps down half the bottle before he knows what he’s doing. He wipes off the mouth, hands it back to Rick. 

Rick just nods, screws the cap on and sits beside him, while Daryl tries like hell to pretend he isn’t there. He’s not sure what this is—Grimes feeling sorry for him? Fucking with him? Being social really isn’t a strong point, and he’s running over things to say in his head until he just wants to crawl away. 

“You go on,” Rick says real quiet, still making Daryl twitch. “I’ll get Glenn up.” And it’s like the sun coming out after a storm, because Daryl can just walk away without having to say a thing; he pushes himself up, hoping Rick doesn’t notice the wobble as he fights back dizziness. He crashes, back to the wall in a dirty little corner of the room, away from the others. 

 

 

He’s up with the light, chasing shit through the trees. He didn’t sleep, not with the dreams and waking up trying not to cough himself bloody. It’s cold, colder than the last few days and there’s frost all over and ice on the creek. Some of the others will come later, carry pots of water back to boil for drinking. Rick says they are going to stay for a few days maybe, stock up and rest. That last part, Rick says looking right at him. 

So he makes sure he’s gone before Rick can stop him; which maybe he regrets, because his throat burns when he breathes, and he just coughs and scares everything away. The headache hangs over him, hammers his vision blurry, makes him dizzy when he moves too fast. All he’s got is two squirrels and a rabbit, and that’s likely the best he’s going to do, if his last attempt is any kind of gauge. 

It’d been fucking sad, like punching-a-tree-and-screaming-at-squirrels sad. His hands are shaking, because it’s colder than the goddamned South Pole, and he can’t shoot with gloves on. So the arrow flies like shit, doesn’t hit near what it is supposed to; and for a minute, Daryl just stares after it, trying to figure out if he has the energy to go find it. When he does, it’s broken and useless, and he hurls it at the nearest tree. He’s so pissed that he’s not really sure when he starts shouting, or when it’s not about the arrow anymore. It’s just all this shit pouring out until he’s left coughing his lungs up, knuckles bleeding. 

Daryl goes back, like some kind of prodigal son. Except he knows nobody at camp is burning some kind of candle, just waiting for him to come back safe. He waves near the tree line, so they don’t have an excuse to blow his head off. Inside, he settles in a corner, wheezing and trying to stretch out his lungs because he can’t get enough air, then sitting stone-still until the urge to cough disappears. He doesn’t mean to sleep, but that’s what he does, pressed against the cheap wood paneling until Carol wakes him up. 

“Food’s ready,” she says, smiling at him like he isn’t some useless idiot who just napped away the afternoon. He nods, moving stiffly into the big room with everyone else. He leans against the wall, watches them line up as Carol and Beth hand over little bowls of turkey, squirrel, and canned corn. He crosses his arms against his belly, trying to muffle the noise it’s making about how it smells. 

Glenn wanders over, waving like he’s only got half a brain, “Hey, Daryl.” Daryl acknowledges him with a nod. Glenn points at his arms, obviously not holding a bowl. “Not hungry?” 

“Ate already,” He growls, pushes off the wall and catches Rick watching. He glares, but pussies out and looks away first. No one tries to stop him as he stalks into another room. 

 

 

He sleeps and dreams—weird little pieces that crack and float away like river ice when footsteps wake him. Hershel whispers, “Daryl, it’s your turn.” Daryl sits up, coughs, and stands; Hershel steadies him when he sways. “You okay, son?” 

He sounds like he’s worried, and Daryl doesn’t want to deal with this shit now, doesn’t want this man’s pity. It won’t do him any good, won’t make him feel any better or keep the others off his back. It just kind of spooks him—how soon before the others know? How soon before they leave him to die in this rat-hole?—and then it’s all screwed together, all that fear and guilt and embarrassment til he can feel himself shaking. 

“’M fine,” he glares, shrugs his hands off and stomps away. Hershel doesn’t follow, but Daryl doesn’t come close to believing that he’ll drop this as he sits down hard. And there goes Merle’s voice, in his head saying as how he could walk out that door, jump on his bike and disappear. Leave them before they decide to put him out of his misery. They’d know he’s sick, know they have no medicine, no way to fix him. They’d say it’s better, kinder than letting him get worse until he dies in his sleep and it’s not Daryl anymore, it’s one of those fuckers out there.

Rick drops down beside him, and shit, all he wants to do is go somewhere and die, because Hershel went and woke him up to deal with Daryl. His head is throbbing in beat with his heart, and it isn’t helping that he’s sweating, shaking like some goddamn purse-dog. It’s all snarled up in his head, until he wants to explain everything to Rick, make him see that he’s not a threat, that they can still use him. That he won’t slow them down, that he’ll make sure to be quiet—won’t draw walkers down on them, won’t keep them awake at night—

Rick pushes a little plastic bowl at him, half full of turkey and burnt squirrel and corn. Daryl stares at it, doesn’t touch it, feels Rick looking. After a moment, “Maybe you’d feel better if you ate something,” and it’s so quiet it only carries to Daryl.

“Already did,” Daryl mumbles, pushing the bowl back into Rick’s chest. 

Rich sighs, squares himself like he’s getting ready for a brawl, “No. You didn’t.”

“Callin’ me a liar?”

“I’m saying I was looking,” he jabs a finger at Daryl, frustrated, “and you didn’t touch anything. Told Glenn you’d already had yours.” Daryl doesn’t have anything to say to that, and Rick doesn’t offer anything else, those sharp eyes watching him filled up with things he really can’t deal with. 

So Daryl snatches the bowl, using his fingers like a shovel. It’s uncomfortable—Rick almost pressed against his shoulder, supervising him while he eats. He doesn’t like him being this close; he’s used to personal space, and mostly people let him have it. But he’s got this little feeling like maybe it would be a bad idea to move away. It’s not just about how close Rick is, which maybe it should be because he fucking smells, like all of them do; they’re wearing the same clothes for weeks, covered in sweat and dirt and walker bits. It’s more the way Rick is watching him, pinning him to the wall while he turns things over in his head. 

“Feeling better,” Rick asks, looking out the half boarded-up window at the trees moving in the wind. 

Daryl snaps, “Fuck you. I’m fi—”

“Fine?” Rick gives him that sideways look, “Yeah. I know.” They just sit there for a while, Rick looking out the filmy window, Daryl fiddling with the bowl on his knee. 

“Go to bed, Daryl,” Rick says finally, like he’s some little kid up past bed time. It rubs him wrong, and all he can think of is all the times his mom and dad and Merle had said that to him—Mom, crying with a black eye, kneeling in front of him; Merle, pupils blown wide, some skank giggling behind him; his dad—

“Daryl,” Rick says, his tone one Daryl’s heard him use on Carl. 

“Yeah, okay.” He’d meant it to be a sneer, mean and sarcastic, but it comes out more tired than anything else. He has to shut off his brain, tell it to stop thinking about how bad this is—Rick taking him off duty, sending him away like he can’t be trusted. It digs at him, but as soon as he builds a little spark of anger, that cold stream of exhaustion drowns it. 

Wrapped in his blanket and coat, Daryl shivers, and tries to remember the last time he’d had the flu, how long he’d been sick for. Tomorrow, Rick will tell the others, and fuck if he knows what they’ll decide to do with him. He closes his eyes, slips right into dreams; he’s running through the trees, the others are chasing him down. They call his name and laugh, but he knows he can’t stop, can’t go to them. Because as soon as they catch him, they’ll stick a knife through his skull.


	3. Chapter 3

Sun light hits his eyes through an un-boarded window—and Jesus, how is Rick okay with staying here this long? Anything trying to get in isn’t going to have to try at all. They’ve managed to dodge most of the herds so far, only dealing with smaller groups when they have to. They’ve been lucky so long as they keep moving; hold up in this dump, Daryl wonders how much longer that streak will last. 

Someone’s been talking to him, while he’s been checked out; a hand on his chest, shaking him a little. God, how long had Hershel been sitting beside him? And Daryl knows that’s not good, considering he’s always been one hell of a light sleeper. But, he thinks, maybe he can worry about that as soon as he can get his eyes to focus. 

“Daryl,” Hershel says, impatient like he’s been trying to wake him up all morning. “Daryl, son, you with me?” Daryl grumbles, squints until he makes out a pair of eyes. 

“How are you feelin’?” Hell if he isn’t getting tired of hearing that. 

“Great,” Daryl groans. Hershel shakes his head, like it isn’t even worth calling bullshit on him, and presses a palm against Daryl’s forehead. He tries to roll away, realizes he’s sandwiched between the wall and Hershel, and tries to sit up instead. Hershel pushes him back down, so easily that Daryl feels his face go red. He takes a crack at shoving the old man’s hands away, succeeding only long enough for Hershel to grab his hand, pressing index and middle fingers to the inside of his wrist. 

“Easy, now,” Hershel says, like he’s trying to calm a fucking horse. 

“The hell you doin’?” The old bastard doesn’t answer him, tells him to drink instead and pushes a bottle into his hand. For a second, Daryl wants to throw it across the room, because he can get his own damn water if he wants it—he doesn’t need some nurse to baby him. Then part of him remembers he shouldn’t piss Hershel off, that he needs to be on these people’s good side. Because as fucking dramatic as it sounds, him being alive for the next few days is hanging on it. 

So he nods his thanks, and gulps it down, even though it’s flat and tastes like metal. Hershel tells him to slow it down, take sips, but Daryl is already coughing, water splattering across his own face and neck. Hershel rolls him onto his side, steadies him as he coughs and hacks for what Daryl suspects is forever. When it finally slows, he’s wheezing, panting like he’d just sprinted a mile and his chest and back are aching. Hershel is shaking his arm and Daryl wants to snap at him to knock it the fuck off, but he can’t find the air to do it. He’s tired, like something heavy’s pressing on him until he can’t move, can’t say anything, can barely think. The old main is talking at him; Daryl tries to tell him to shut up, but he closes his eyes and then it doesn’t matter anymore.

 

 

There’s something wet on his forehead, drops running down his nose, into the corner of his eye. Daryl shifts, a whine in the back of his throat. He wipes it away, a blanket that is not his falling off his shoulders, and moves closer to the wall. 

“Sorry,” and he looks up at Carol, who’s pulling the blanket back over him. She’s smiling, doesn’t look sorry at all as she wrings out a cloth, dripping more water while she sponges at his face. There’s concern in her eyes, bright and big like his mother’s, and Daryl’s not really sure how that sits with him. 

Voices in the room, and Daryl can’t seem to find where they’re coming from. In the corner, he guesses, loud whispers, like they’re trying not to wake him up. He wants to curl up and away from all of this—because he knows what they’re arguing about. Even in his sleep, Daryl’s still riling shit up. 

Dropping the cloth into a bowl of water, Carol gets up and walks across the room; Daryl’s eyes follow her to where she stops beside Rick and Hershel. She says something real quiet to them, and he can guess what, because both of them stop glaring at each other and come over. 

Hershel squats down beside him, pressing a palm to his face; Daryl grunts, rolls his head away from cold fingers. The old bastard just waits for him to stop and tries again. Daryl gives up, lets the man poke at him; when Hershel’s done, he asks, “How are you feeling?”

“The hell you people keep askin’ me that,” He’s trying to be flip, but it comes out with no real force. He goes to sit up, and his arms shake so bad Hershel has to prop him up by the shoulders. 

“Daryl,” Rick says, a warning in his voice. 

“Peachy,” Daryl snaps, coughing before he can even finish. It sets his chest aching, back and shoulders sore like he’s done hard labor; his throat feels raw and dry. He wants to say more, tell Rick to piss off, that he’s been taking care of himself since he was in diapers. But he’s tired, and he remembers kind of lamely that he’d made a choice, he’d agreed to do what Rick said. He’d voted for the guy. 

Hershel just sighs, “You’re running a fever. That and the cough, I’d say it’s the flu.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl hisses, “I figured.” 

Rick glares at him, and Daryl sort of smirks back; Hershel just ignores them, continuing, “We’re gonna work on that fever, but you need to rest and stay hydrated.” Daryl tries to ask the old man just who the hell is going to hunt their dinner down if he’s on his ass all day. Hershel cuts him off before he gets two words out, “There isn’t much else we can do here, son. We don’t even have aspirin.” 

All three of them look up as Carol comes through the open door, balancing some cups and a bowl. She sets everything on the floor, kneeling down beside them. She bullies a steaming cup into Daryl’s hands, Hershel still supporting his shoulders as he takes a sip. “Jesus,” He holds back a cough, “what is that shit?”

Hershel’s trying hard not to laugh, “It’s a tincture; best I can do with what we have.” 

“Honey and garlic,” Carol offers, “little bit of sage, too. Found it around back.” She stands up, shrugging when he picks a piece of stem off his tongue. She takes a cup for herself, notices Daryl looking. “Just tea for me,” she presses her lips together, like she doesn’t want to laugh at the look he gives her. 

“Fuckin’ tasty,” he frowns, but drinks it anyway; Rick paces across the room, not talking, just watching them. It’s not completely awful, because this heat is spreading through his chest, and his throat goes kind of numb; he can feel himself leaning into Hershel’s hands, closing his eyes. 

“Not yet, son,” Hershel tugs him around until Daryl is sitting against the wall. 

Carol is next to him again, passing him a bowl and spoon. It’s soup. Fucking chicken noodle soup—except he knows it turkey, and there aren’t any noodles, but it smells pretty much the same, and Jesus, he wishes his face isn’t so red. It’s making his head spin around, why these people are going out of there way for him. They can’t stand him, right? Can’t wait to find an excuse to ditch him. So why didn’t they just do it already, instead of messing with him like this? 

“Ain’t hungry,” He mumbles, looking away. The spoon clinks against the bowl as he shivers. 

Rick stops pacing, takes a few steps closer, “Too bad. Eat it.” And Daryl just gives in, eats more than he has in days. There’s a lot of garlic in it, and Daryl knows they’ll all reek—like they didn’t already—but it doesn’t matter because it’s hot and tastes better than anything he can remember. He finishes, drinks more of the ‘tea’; Carol takes the dishes, says for him to feel better, and leaves Daryl to Hershel and Rick. 

“Can you ride?” Rick blurts out. Daryl jumps a little, because they’d been sitting quiet for a while, and he’s half ready to fall asleep. 

“Yeah,” he answers automatically. Rick stares him down until he looks away, and Daryl thinks, no, he can’t fucking ride—he’d have a coughing fit or get dizzy and fall off the goddamn bike. “Maybe,” he says instead, because there’s not really room for him in the others’ cars. And he sure as shit isn’t leaving Merle’s bike behind; when—if, a little voice corrects, and he squashes that line of thought hard—he finds him, Merle would curb-stomp his ass if he left it behind. He isn’t too keen on not having his own ride, either. 

Hershel and Rick share a look, like they’ve already worked all this out—and Daryl feels like throwing up his soup, because they have. They had been going over this while he slept, deciding exactly what they would do. Are they being nice now, kind, because they’re getting ready to leave, because they feel guilty? Daryl crosses his arms over his stomach, forces his breath to slow down. Is this when Rick pulls a knife, tells Daryl he’s sorry before slamming it through his temple, where the bone is weak? It will feel different, Daryl thinks, from a walker’s skull, more resistant than rotting flesh. He hopes it’s lights out, just there and gone—Daryl isn’t sure if it would be instant, or if he’d keep going, keep seeing and feeling for seconds or minutes afterwards. 

Rick touches his shoulder, and Daryl flinches so violently that Rick snatches his hand away like he’s been burned. Daryl just starts cough, wishing like hell that this all wasn’t so pathetic, and nobody touches him again. 

“We’re staying here for a while. Until you’re better,” Rick says slow and quiet, like Daryl’s going to freak out on them again. 

Daryl stares at Rick like he’s just said he was the Lord fucking Jesus Christ. “The hell we are!” Daryl yells, regretting it a second later because he coughs until he’s sweating and pale. This place isn’t safe, they wouldn’t last an hour if a herd goes for them. He doesn’t want that responsibility, the blame that will fall on him when someone they care about gets hurt here. Rick wants to stay in this fucking death trap because of him, because Daryl’s a liability on the move. And Daryl thinks out there, the others will leave him, because they’re smart enough to recognize dead weight when they see it. Even if Rick can’t. 

Rick doesn’t even listen, grips his arm for a second—slow, making sure Daryl can see what he’s doing—says, “Get some rest,” and walks out of the room. 

Daryl wants to yell for him to come back, to make a better choice. But he can’t, because he’s fucking terrified of what that choice would be, terrified to just disappear—no one’d look for him, he’d just completely vanish, because who’s going to care if he’s gone? These people have family to fight for, friends to worry over. But Daryl isn’t their family and he isn’t their friend. He’s only good enough as long as he’s useful. 

Which he isn’t right now. Won’t be for a while. 

Breathing hard, he shivers against the wall; he knows what Merle would tell him: grow a pair and deal with these people before the deal with him. Take everything not bolted down and never look back—he’s been on his own before, and he can do it again. Except this time isn’t the same, not when the world is gone to hell and things wearing dead peoples’ faces eat you. Except this time, maybe he doesn’t want to be on his own. 

He probably makes a noise, because Hershel is saying, “Come on, now. We’ll work it out.” The old man tries to rest a hand on his shoulder, and Daryl jerks away from him. He can’t deal with all of this, the fear and anxiety and need, like the taste of vomit in the back of his throat. 

Hershel reaches for him again, and Daryl hisses, “Get the fuck away from me!” He doesn’t argue or say anything; the old man just nods, gets up and leaves the room. 

And finally he’s alone, with himself and with his head; but he really doesn’t want to work through all this now, so he just pulls air into his lungs. In and out, in and out, til it fills his mind and he can think normal, not blinded by his stupid panic. It’s quite, just creaking wood and wind and barely-there voices from other rooms. His stomach is full and he’s warm under the blankets; it’s so easy to slip onto the floor, press against the wall, and close his eyes. 

Daryl covers his face with an arm, and breathes.


	4. Chapter 4

If it’s night or day, he can’t tell. Like every time he blinks, he doesn’t know if it’s been three seconds or three hours. Was that Rick talking to him? Or was that yesterday. He isn’t sure. The fever, he knows, is messing his head up, and he’s having trouble telling if stuff is real, or if he’s dreaming or hallucinating. Daryl can’t remember the last time he was this fucked up.

He’s seeing shapes and jumping at shadows, and he thinks he’s still in the same room, and then sometimes he just isn’t. Sometimes he’s in the woods, running or hunting or just lying beneath the trees. It’s quiet and there’s no breeze, and even though the ground is soft he knows he should leave. Get up and go now, because any second those knobby old roots will wrap around him, squeeze him until his ribs pop. 

And sometimes he’s kind of aware of things; he knows his head’s messed up, but he can’t make anything to fit together. Like one moment he’s coughing in that boarded-up hole, and he open his eyes and it’s his dad’s house and he’s in the corner scared shitless. One of the others, usually Hershel, pulls Daryl back to the pile of blankets, gives him water or more soup and then he’s back under that fog. 

 

 

It’s dark, and Daryl almost yells at Merle to turn on the damn lights until he remembers that Merle’s gone, this isn’t his house and electricity doesn’t work anymore. He sees Merle, in the dreams and when he’s awake, and mostly he doesn’t say anything about it that he can remember. He comes out of the woods in his head, and Merle is sitting next to him, feeling his forehead with a hand Daryl had found on an Atlanta rooftop. He asks him, “How the fuck’d you get that back?” Merle doesn’t answer, just smirks and say nothing, and isn’t that just like him. But it’s not Merle, not with him here, not now, because Merle’s gone; and what kind of shit brother does that make him, Daryl wonders, when he’s not out there searching?

Daryl thinks, when he’s not half-out of his head and weak as lite beer, he’ll start looking. For sure, he wants to say to Not-Merle, he’s going to find him. Really find him, not like the last times, he won’t cock it all up. Daryl thinks that he should swear on it, but isn’t sure it counts if the other person isn’t real. As he tries sleep, he thinks over and over again, when he’s better, he’ll find his brother. Won’t mess it up. Not again. 

 

 

There are people in the room. At least, he thinks there are; it’s not like he’d put money on it, but he hears voices, almost-whispers that he can barely keep up with. Hershel’s talking, about how something is getting worse, how if they don’t get something for it soon, the old man can’t make any promises. There’s the cough, and the fever, and how they’re not conscience half the time—a piece snaps together in Daryl’s brain, because they’re talking about him. His fever is getting worse, and that explains why everything is all fucked up and hard to follow. Daryl’s pretty sure a fever can scramble a person’s brain, leave them rock-eating special, and if that’s going to happen, he hopes he just dies. 

But there’s a pharmacy, someone says, that they haven’t looked in before, and maybe something there would help. They’re dead silent, and even half there, Daryl knows what comes next. Who’s going to go? It’s not a short trip, maybe a day there and back, and no one has to remind them exactly how much can go wrong. 

It’s stupid fucking Glenn that says, “I’ll go.” Daryl can just see the others staring at him; he’d always be the top runner choice—he’s fast and not completely useless, good in a bad spot—and why the hell is he sticking his neck out for an asshole like Daryl? 

He wants to laugh, because this is a really dumb fucking idea; Maggie must agree, and she says, “No. You can’t go alone, and—”

“T-Dog says he’ll go with me,” offers Glenn. 

“Glenn,” Maggie’s voice is low and worried, and if it was anyone else, Daryl’d think she is crying. “You don’t have to do this.”

The kid just says, “Maggie. It’s Daryl,” like that’s all there is to it. 

Nobody says a thing, and Daryl’s about to fall back asleep when Maggie whispers, “Fine. I’m coming with you,” and he wishes she said something different, convinced them not to go. 

He fucking hates this—he’s just listening, can’t say anything, can’t even crack an eye open. This is stupid, and this is dangerous, and who thinks this is actually a good idea? They’d be on their own, in the cold and dark and out in the middle of nowhere where no one can help them. This is stupid, that’s what it is, because Daryl can think of at least a hundred little things that can go sideways. And all it takes is one, and they wouldn’t be coming back. Not hurt or scared—they won’t look back years from now and laugh about that time shit went wrong, and god, aren’t they lucky? They’d just be dead. 

Because of him. 

 

 

Like some kind of bolt, he’s awake, head mostly clear, staring at chipped paint on the ceiling. He thinks maybe Hershel has been watching for it, because he says something and Rick, Glenn, Maggie, and Lori are piling into the room. They just look at him, and he wants to sit up, tell them all to go fuck themselves, because everyone just standing there is making him twitch. Hershel sticks something under his head, and Daryl is too drained flinch away, just lets the old man prop his head up. He drinks what they give him—water and broth—and they wait until he’s finished, creepy as shit watching and not saying a thing. 

Glenn’s the first to move, squats down across from him and kind of waves. Jesus, the kid looks like shit, but he smiles a little, says, “Hey, Daryl. You, uh, you look better.”

Daryl snorts, coughs for a minute, “You’re a shit liar.” Which the kid is—worst fucking liar Daryl has ever seen.

He kind of laughs, embarrassed and nervous, and Maggie tells him it’s time to go; she meets Daryl’s eyes, nods, like she’s trying to say they’ll be back and don’t worry and that she gets it, all rolled into a messy second. He doesn’t miss the look Lori gives him either as she walks out with them, one hand on her belly and the other on Maggie’s shoulder. Like maybe she knows he’s a piece of shit, but that she also feels sorry for him. And Christ, does he hate that look. 

It takes a few minutes, after Daryl hears an engine start and fade, before he can say, “You shouldn’t have let them go.” His voice is bad; he’s got no strength behind it, and it falls out of his mouth like a wheeze. He can feel his head throbbing, starting to slip back into that fog, and goddamn it, he just needs to understand this before he goes back under. 

Rick settles closer, taking a knee beside him. Daryl figures from the look he’s getting, Rick’s had this same fight already; probably with Lori, since she’s the only one with balls enough to fight him anymore. He laughs, “Then tell me what I should do,” it’s sarcastic and frustrated and pisses Daryl right off. 

“You should get these people out of here. Keep moving,” he spits, pushing all the anger and grit he can manage into it. He wants to keep going, snap Rick’s head back on straight, but he has to stop to slow his breathing, try not to cough. 

“And what about you?” Daryl wishes Hershel would come back from wherever the fuck he went, tell Rick to get out and let him sleep. This is moving in the wrong direction, toward a shitload he doesn’t want to touch. 

“That ain’t important.” 

“Why,” Rick says it quiet and calm, watching him even though Daryl won’t look back—just still and steady, just completely there. 

“It just ain’t. You’re supposed to keep these people safe,” and Daryl can hear how slurred he sounds, like his brain is slowing down and he’s got to fight hard to keep up. 

“You’re one of those people.”

That’s not the point, Daryl wants to shout at him, that is not what he’s trying to say. But the words aren’t coming out right and he can’t focus on Rick’s face anymore. He wants Rick to stop pretending, to quit acting like he doesn’t get what he means—Daryl isn’t one of them, and Rick shouldn’t be acting like he is. Shouldn’t be putting good peoples’ lives on the line for him.

“Daryl, you need medicine.” Rick says, because he can see Daryl struggling to breathe, coughing and sweating and fish-belly pale. 

“What if nothing’s there. Could just be walkers.” Daryl manages through his teeth, glad for the subject change. 

Rick nods, “Yeah. Could be they find something, too.” Daryl snorts, wishing he had the energy to roll his eyes. “It’s worth the risk,” he says, like the idiot has himself convinced. 

And Daryl loses his shit, shouting, “No, it ain’t!” He wants to shake Rick by his fool neck, “They got people waiting for them! People who need them!” He wants to hit himself for being such a goddamned idiot, opening his mouth like that. Rick just looks at him, uncomfortable and creepy as fuck until Daryl starts coughing—and it goes on forever, until he’s gasping and shaking and just wants to die—and hands him a bottle of water. 

“And you don’t?” Daryl is done, he’s fucking done with this, closes his eyes. But Rick can’t take the hint, and like a pitbull with its teeth sunk in, he just keeps at it. “You think I don’t know what you do for us? Feed my wife and son, my baby?” He throws an arm back, pointing to the others in the next room. “You think they don’t know?”

Daryl’s not going to answer, not going to talk anymore. This train is so far off its goddamn tracks that he can’t even be sure how it got there. Rick should realize that sending Glenn and Maggie and T-Dog out there is a shit idea. They should pack up and run while they can. They should leave Daryl here—he won’t know where he is, won’t have a fucking clue because the fever will fry his brain and he’ll be dead in a few days. Not their problem. 

But Rick has to go the fucking warm and fuzzy route, can’t see reason—refuses to. They aren’t going to hug, they aren’t going to be best-fucking-friends-forever. Something is going to go wrong, and it will be his fault and then Rick and the others will hate him. For real hate, not just how they look at him now—no matter how many deer or turkeys or squirrels he brings in, it wouldn’t matter anymore. 

So he rolls away from Rick, pulling the blanket up and over his nose. Rick keeps saying his name, shaking his shoulder, tells him they’re not done talking about this. But they are, Daryl is sure, because everything is far away and soft at the edges until it’s black and there is nothing. 

 

 

Hands, holding him down, and fuck, that’s never good, so he fights—legs, elbows, fist, teeth, whatever, just get them off. Hopes he draws blood, breaks bones, bruises like an oil spill. Doesn’t know if he hits anything, and it doesn’t matter anyway because there are more than him and they pin his arms and his legs. Trying to choke him, sticking things in his mouth, down his throat; mouth and nose, everything covered and he can’t hold his breath so he swallows. Maybe it’s poison and maybe he’ll die or maybe he won’t have to worry because they’ll rip him apart first. 

Then it’s not hands anymore, it’s his dad, holding him still. That’s how broken bones and cigarette burns happen, where those big long lines—blood everywhere, skin on fire—come from. Stitch them up, if he can reach them, get Merle to do it if he can’t. 

But he’s been yelling for Merle, and he’s not coming, must be too high or maybe he’s locked up again. Bad things happen when Merle’s locked up, and why the fuck can’t he be here for once? Can’t trust that prick, can’t trust anyone else either. Just himself, only himself, always, because people are never there when you need them. 

Say every nasty thing you can, tell him he’s a coward, a loser, and then just tell him to go fuck himself again and again and again—


	5. Chapter 5

His head’s clear enough to know that everything hurts. Every. Fucking. Thing. Shoulders and back and head—especially his head. Like someone used his skull to break bottles. But he’s awake, and knows where he is and what’s happening, which is better than nothing. Most of all, he’s tired. Daryl groans, tries to roll off his aching side, but a hand stops him. 

“Easy,” Hershel warns him, and Daryl thinks he’s going to need some serious alone time as soon as he can walk. “You awake, son?”

Daryl thinks about how to answer that. Yes or no, shut up and let me sleep, leave me the hell alone—all good choices. He settles on, “Fuck. Thirsty.” The old man pats his shoulder, rolls him onto his back and props his head up with a folded coat. Daryl can’t completely hold the bottle, doesn’t even care, because the water is cold and feels amazing on his throat. And goddamn, if he doesn’t feel just a little bit better. 

“Think you can sit?” Daryl nods, trying to hold himself up as Hershel pulls him around and against the wall. “We’ll get some food in you first, then some pills. You feeling up to that?”

“They okay?” Daryl asks, not looking at the old man; he’s not sure if he can handle anymore shit right now. 

“Took them a bit longer than expected; had to circle around a herd, but everyone’s whole.” Hershel smiles, and Daryl knows he’s grateful as hell that it went down like that. The old man worries, about Maggie and Beth and about what happens to the others. Must be nice, he thinks, to have that. They just sit for a while, nobody saying a thing; Hershel shakes his head, stands up, and says he’ll be right back with something to eat. 

It’s not Hershel that walks in with a bowl, but Rick; and it’s the absolute last person Daryl wants to see, because he’s got this look like Rick and him have some serious shit to get through. He hands over the bowl, walks to the other side of the room and stares out the window, back facing him. Daryl tries to eat slow, doesn’t have to try too hard because he’s nauseous just thinking about what Rick has to say. Part of him hopes that Rick will get tired of waiting, glare at him and just leave. But the food’s gone, and like he can tell the fucking second it is, Rick turns back around and walks over. 

He’s crouching in front of him, holds out a closed fist until Daryl takes the pills from his hand; Daryl shoves them in his mouth, takes the water Rick passes to him and prays that’s all Rick’s been waiting for. 

“We need to talk.” Fuck, Daryl wants to break out the window and climb away. Since he’s not sure he could get up on his own, he stares back at Rick instead. 

Merle would tell him to nut up, get this shit out of the way and keep going, no matter which way it swings. But Merle’d never tried to live with people, never tried to work with them or understand them or be one of them—never really needed to. Steal and take until they have nothing left, drop them as soon as they run dry. Sometimes, Daryl doesn’t think he’s like Merle at all.

“Then talk,” because this is going to happen, even though he’d rather pull his fingernails off. Because maybe it needs to happen.

It’s like Rick had been expecting a huge fight, and he stares at Daryl for a second trying to figure out what to say now. “You said things, when the fever got bad.”

“No shit.” Daryl can remember small bits, shouting crazy stuff at people and things that weren’t there. Flashes of dead faces and blood and bad times and Jesus, he’s not sure he’s glad or mortified that he can’t remember all he’d said. Daryl wishes like hell his face wasn’t so hot and red, that he had the energy to fight Rick off. 

The man just ignores him, goes on, “You said stuff about the group. You asked us not to leave you behind.” That nervous way Rick won’t look at him, grips his fingers together, makes Daryl think it was something more pathetic than asking. 

“I’d like to understand why, Daryl. Why you think you had to ask that.” Then he’s just watching Daryl, full attention like a spotlight, makes him sweat. 

He doesn’t know where to start, how to explain what being on the outside feels like. To know that he has no family, no friends, nothing to hold him there, but still needing them. People who look at him just like everyone else in his life had—violent, ignorant, useless, a piece of shit, not worth a fucking second thought. To want to be someone different, something better; trying to change and fucking everything up until he can’t see why he should care anymore. Tired, deep in his bones, because it’s like running in place, pushing and fighting but not getting a step ahead, a step closer to being what these people need him to be. And knowing, that no matter what he does—no matter how much food he brings back, no matter how many walkers he kills or safe places he finds—he can’t break down the wall that he’s built up between himself and the others. 

But how the hell can Daryl say any of that to him—Rick, upstanding and respectable, a leader and a husband and father and genuinely fucking good guy? How would someone like Rick understand anything? Merle’s the only one who gets Daryl, and even then his own brother treated him like shit. 

He wants to try though, being something different—the world is over and this is something new altogether. The further he gets from the old way things were, it’s like all these new paths are there, so many different trails. Even if it’s taking him forever and he hates every step, he won’t turn around, won’t hide behind the way he was. Not if he wants to survive. 

So if Rick thinks it’s a good idea to talk, he’ll talk; he’s pretty sure that he can’t get out of this, can’t say something flip and expect the man to accept it. Daryl knows it’s going to come out wrong or stupid and Rick will probably laugh and then they’ll just hate each other. 

Daryl bites a nail, doesn’t look up, “I ain’t like y’all. Been trying to be, but it’s not workin’.”

He snorts, and Daryl wants to break his fucking nose—that satisfying crunch beneath his knuckles. But Rick is smiling, says, “We’ve got a vet farmer, a delivery boy, a cop, house wives—” Daryl just looks at him, face blank, willing him to get to the point. “We’re different. All of us.” Rick reaches out a hand, like he’s going to touch Daryl’s shoulder, stops, lets it hover there like he expects Daryl to run away. “It doesn’t matter, Daryl.”

“Yeah, then what does?” Daryl says, harsher than he’d meant to; talking about this shit makes him edgy, angry. Rick’s a little too close, too present, and Daryl can’t move away—his back is literally against the wall, sitting there like a fucking dead fish. The lack of personal space doesn’t seem to bother Rick, who watches him and doesn’t blink. 

“Staying alive.” There’s nothing soft or warm in Rick’s eyes, only an openness. For a short moment, Daryl can see how tired Rick is, how everything is pulling him down like briar thorns. That constant weight of just how responsible he is for these people—they look to him for safety and survival, and he can’t do the same, can’t share that burden. Because he’s the leader, their leader, and he needs to be strong and fearless and without doubt. 

And he thinks of what Rick had said before, about how he knew what Daryl does for them, what he provides. How maybe Rick relies on him, depends on him. How maybe Rick sort of needs him, just to carry a little of that burden—Daryl can hunt and fight and survive out here. He can help the others do the same. 

He must see on Daryl’s face, must understand that he kind of gets it, even if he isn’t completely sure about it. Rick reaches out, rests a hand on his shoulder, and Daryl doesn’t feel like pulling away. “You’re one of us Daryl. You hear me?”

Daryl nods, because maybe this time he does.


End file.
